


A Crow Cannot Be Weak

by Miah_Arthur



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Developing Friendships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Pre-Slash, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: "So he possesses you. And this is the man who would save Fereldan. Ashemlike all the rest." The Keeper's eyes swept over Zevran. "He cannot even be bothered to treat his possession with care. You say in lieu of death you followed him, yet your wounds were festering while they carried supplies to treat them.""I am a Crow. A Crow cannot be weak."





	1. A Bargain Struck

**Author's Note:**

> A **HUGE** thank you to fleem for being willing to give this a grammar beta. Really, thank you very, very much.

****

# **A Crow Cannot Be Weak**

## **Chapter One**

### **A Bargain Struck**

The Warden loomed over Zevran, eyeing him with skepticism. "Your claims to usefulness had better prove to be true, elf."

Zevran tried for his most charming smile, although how charming could one be huddled, bleeding, in the Ferelden mud? "Yes, that would be for the best."

"What? Really? Now we're taking the _assassin_ with us?" The indignant voice came from outside the knot of people surrounding him, but must have belonged to the other Warden.

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair." 

"Well, I suppose…"

Beside the Warden stood a tall, dark-haired woman who exuded power. He would be wary of her even if he hadn't seen her throwing boulders, and if her calculating stare hadn't been directed at him. "I for one would be sure to check your food for poison from now on." 

"A wise precaution at all times, I always say," Zevran added with a chuckle.

An odd expression crossed the Grey Warden's face at that, but he reached out and pulled Zevran up out of the mud. "I am returning your daggers. I had better not find one in my back."

"Of course not. I am your man until you release me."

"Do you have a travel pack?"

Zevran pointed at the overturned cart. "The one with no markings."

"Leliana."

The young woman, who was dressed as if she just left a cloister, nodded and retrieved the pack. Zevran watched as she stripped it of everything useful for his tradecraft, even finding the secret compartments containing his deadliest poisons. This sister bore watching. Zevran subtly checked for the things he carried on his person. All gone. His estimation of her changed to artisan.

Leliana passed the potions off to the witch, Morrigan, and then shoved the pack at Zevran's middle. It caught the edge of the wound on his stomach, and he gasped. To cover, he winked and said, "So strong for a sister. You must have amazing stamina when it comes to more enjoyable activities, no?"

She huffed and brushed past him.

The Warden scowled at him. "Move out. Sten, take the lead. You. Follow Sten."

Zevran accepted that as an order to practice being seen and not heard. The Qunari growled in his direction and marched out of the clearing. Zevran shouldered the much-lightened pack and fell in line with the rest somewhere behind him. 

Now that he was not arguing for his life, the rush drained away and the injuries he had taken pushed to the forefront. The witch had caught him in the side with a magical boulder, and his hip and ribs ached, pulsing in time with his heart. Zevran winced as a step landed harder than he expected on the uneven Ferelden road. The boulder doubtless left impressive bruising, but was less concerning than the wound to his stomach, with its sodden bandage.

A blow from Alistair's shield, followed by a quick slice of the sword had ended Zevran's assassination attempt before he ever got close to his primary target. He had dragged himself to the lee of a wagon and secured the bandage before the skirmish faded to black. It was a show of weakness that, had another Crow witnessed it, could have resulted in his execution. 

It was not long until sundown; surely they would make camp soon. He could march that long. He had to. _A Crow that cannot keep up is a dead Crow_ was a maxim he had learned early. 

The giant had yet to look back, and Zevran doubted he would get any conversation out of him. The conversations behind him, though, were full of valuable information. Alistair, in particular, was still haranguing the smaller Grey Warden, but none of them were happy that he had been allowed to walk armed and unrestrained. He had to admit that, had their positions been reversed, he would not have.

Acid shot up his throat, and he swallowed it back into its place. He had already had a chance to find out what he would do, situations reversed, and Rinna was dead. That had been the point in taking this assignment, no? The sudden impulse to argue for his continued existence was not something he had expected. 

Behind him, the Warden said in a tone that brooked no dissent, "Enough, Alistair! We need all the help we can get, and that's final."

Alistair shut up almost instantly, and Zevran filed that obedience away for future reference. The sun was dropping behind the hills, and Zevran's skin prickled in the gathering chill. He hated this Ferelden weather. Summertime in Antiva meant pleasantly warm and dry. Cold and mud passed for the same season here. 

The next ten minutes passed in silence other than the squelch of their boots. The world spun slowly and Zevran's focus whittled down to keeping his feet on the road. A warning growl from the Qunari was all that stopped him from bumping into the stopped giant. 

He schooled his features to present his most playful and charming mask, then turned, surveying his surroundings. It was a decent place to camp, and best of all, it included a stream of fresh running water. A powerful thirst seized him upon seeing it, but he waited for orders. No good letting the twitchier among them think he was trying to escape. 

"Sten, Morrigan, secure the perimeter. Alistair, Leliana, get the fire going. You," he jabbed a finger toward Zevran, "fetch the water. Phydeaux, keep an eye on him."

Everyone immediately split to their tasks, leaving Zevran wondering how he was to fetch the water, when the Warden—he really had to learn the man's name—flung a bucket at him. Zevran caught it easily, then wished he hadn't, as the impact sent a jolt of pain through him.

Zevran normally used a neutralizer in all of his drinks. It wouldn't counteract the good poisons, but it did get rid of anything natural in the water that would make him sick. It was gone with the rest of the vials he had hidden in his clothes. The mabari gamboled to the water's edge and began lapping. The need for water overpowered Zevran's caution. He knelt and scooped handfuls of water to his mouth. 

Alistair's heavily armored footsteps and Leliana's laughter warned him of their return with the firewood. Zevran scrambled to fill the bucket. He had seen the pot the Warden had wrestled out of the Dwarven merchant's wagon and knew he would need to make several trips. The mabari trotted along beside him, giving Zevran the impression he was being closely watched. Just how smart were the mabari?

Zevran poured the water into the pot, leered at Leliana's bosom, and commented on the aesthetic pleasingness of Alistair's backside as he crouched over the fire, before scooting back toward the water. The dizziness of earlier had largely gone, so Zevran pushed himself to finish his task before it had a chance to return. Maybe then he would be allowed some measure of privacy.

On the second trip, he noticed that the bundles of things the Warden had been unloading from the wagon were shaping up to be one-man tents. They were already one short for everyone they had begun the day with. His pack only contained his personal items, including a single blanket. The overturned wagon had held the tents and other cold weather gear. He shivered at the thought of sleeping in the cold mud. Even sleeping by the fire wouldn't be much help against this chill.

As he walked back to the stream, he heard Alistair say, "Now we're supposed to trust the assassin near our food, I suppose?"

Leliana replied, "I searched him myself, he has nothing but his blades."

Morrigan's voice followed him, "If you are so concerned, Alistair, you could fetch the water."

"Ah, no thanks. I think I wrenched my shoulder in that fight."

Zevran filled the bucket and headed back. 

"Do you want me to kiss it better?" Morrigan cooed.

"I-uh-no, I mean-uh, no. Definitely no." Alistair's stammering could be fun to exploit in the future. 

"Alistair, be a big boy and let her look at it. We need you at full strength. Leliana, Sten? Anything?"

Zevran knew they had no need to ask him. They had searched him while he was unconscious. A return of his wound kit would be good, but it had not been offered. To ask would show weakness.

"I am well." 

Zevran almost jumped. He hadn't heard the giant coming up behind him. "Ah, that is good. Your blade is most valuable in battle, yes?"

Sten took a step toward him, teeth bared. The Warden intervened, asking Sten something about his sword. Sten scowled in his direction over the Warden's head.

Zevran did not know how he had offended the Qunari, and he was not sticking around in this state to find out. At full health, with his blades poisoned, and a sneak attack, he was sure he could easily take the giant, but he had none of those advantages. He poured the water into the pot, and turned to get more. 

Morrigan called after him. "That is enough, elf." She tossed a cake of soap to him. "Go and wash yourself. It is bad enough that you have filled our cooking pot in that state, I do not wish to drink mud that has flaked off of you."

"Yes, well you are full of pleasant thoughts, aren't you Morrigan?" Alistair had stripped his armor off and was pulling his shirt over his head. He groaned as he raised his arm, and Leliana stepped in to help him.

Admitting to weakness was dangerous outside very close allies. This group must be closer than he had estimated. The dog kept a step behind him as he slunk out of the camp. He found a pool of water just downstream. He didn't look forward to this, but the soap was the only thing he had to deal with this wound. It had already been left muddy far too long.

Zevran checked the positions of the others. They were all visible at the campsite, except the mabari who was sitting at attention on its haunches, staring. "So your Warden trusts you to watch me, yes?" 

The animal's stub tail swept the ground. 

"And if I were to continue walking?"

The dog stood, its hackles raised, and a low rumble in its throat. 

"I am not. You can smell the blood. I would not get far alone tonight."

Phydeaux sat again, and cocked his head to one side with a slight whine. 

Zevran slowly worked the clasps of his armor and let it fall to the ground. Dirt cracked off from the impact. His shirt was next. The bandage was stained black from the mud, and was sodden with blood. He carefully peeled it away from the wound, biting his lip to keep his silence. The wound was as dirty as the rest of him, with black caked under the edge on one side, and the other beginning to show inflamed red. The bleeding had stopped, at least. 

He sighed. If he cleaned it now, and kept it clean, he might still fend off an infection. If he was lucky. He shivered in the cool air. The water wasn't going to get any warmer for waiting. He gingerly waded out to his knees and then plunged himself under. The shock of it jolted him wide awake, and he began scrubbing with the soap, saving the wound for last. 

His entire right side was a splotchy purple, but careful prodding convinced him that nothing was broken. He scooted out to the edge of the water, and put his back to a boulder to clean the wound. He didn't make a sound. He had Crow training to thank for that, but he wanted to cry out more than he had in a very long time. He had not been without potions and salves since he was a child. Perhaps it had made him soft. 

When every trace of dirt was gone, he wobbled out of the water onto the bank. He used his clean shirt to dry himself and then draped it on a bush to let it dry. He dressed himself, including his dagger belt, and re-bandaged the wound to control the renewed oozing of blood and clear fluid. Keeping it clean would have to be good enough for now. It was nearing dark, so he hurried in, knocking the worst of the grime from his armor. 

A sharp whistle from the camp sent the dog into a frenzy of motion. It ran around Zevran a couple of times and then toward the camp before returning and nudging his elbow.

"That means I am to follow you, yes?"

A happy whine was his response. 

"Am I to be allowed to gather my things?" The mabari stopped nudging him, and he took that as permission. A dog as a jailor, he could not have predicted this for any amount of wager. He pulled his still damp shirt on, put on his pack and was gathering up his armor when a second whistle sounded. 

The mabari clamped onto the edge of his shirt and began tugging him out of the clearing. "Wait. Wait!"

There was no waiting. Zevran was dragged into the clearing to the sound of laughter. 

"And look what the mabari dragged in! Who's a good boy?" The dog released Zevran to bounce happily around Alistair's feet.

Zevran set his armor and pack in an empty spot near the fire and did his best sashay up to the Grey Warden. "You called?" 

The Warden's eyes ran up and down Zevran's body and Zevran was sure he saw a flash of lust, but the voice was as gruff as it had been at the ambush. "Food's ready."

Zevran took the portion he was given and wrapped in his blanket to eat it. The food was surprisingly tasty, and a pleasant warmth crept through him in spite of the surroundings. Morrigan slipped away to her own separate camp with her food. The Warden—Aedan—Zevran had finally learned, spent the evening talking to Leliana. It was obvious to Zevran that she was an Orlesian Bard nearly from the moment she began speaking. He had met a few of them in his work, though none that had joined a cloister, that could be interesting to follow up on. The Warden got there eventually. 

Zevran finished cleaning his armor as best he could without the oils he needed to do the job properly, and then went back to the stream to clean his clothes he had taken off earlier. The dog followed him, even though the order hadn't been renewed. 

"So you are going to be following me from now on, I take it?"

The stub tail wagged and Zevran swore the animal was smiling at him. 

Zevran draped the clothes over a bush to dry. The blood stains weren't going anywhere, but they were better than being naked under his armor. "Yes, well, good job. My wily laundry escape has been foiled."

The dog yipped at him.

Zevran returned to the fire and his blanket. Most of the group had disappeared into their tents. Only Sten and the Warden remained. 

The Warden stared at Zevran for a moment then closed the distance, looming into Zevran's space. "Take off your shoes and daggers."

Zevran handed over the daggers. He supposed it had been enough of a show of faith that he had been allowed to carry them while everyone was on alert, but he balked at the shoes.

"I would rather keep my boots on. Your furry companion has informed me that he will not allow me to run."

"Boots," the Warden said in the same tone he had used earlier on Alistair.

Zevran sighed and handed over the boots. The warden disappeared into his tent with both sets of items. Sten slowly paced around the camp, not spending too much time near the fire, keeping his eyes adjusted to the night. 

Zevran huddled into the blanket and let himself sleep. Exhaustion kept him down for a while, until the cold got to be too much. By that time, Alistair was patrolling the camp and Sten was asleep on a bedroll. The giant seemed unconcerned with the cold. Zevran wondered about that. The Qunari were from a land rumored to be even hotter than Antiva, was he truly not bothered or was this a display of the famous Qunari fortitude? Zevran snugged the blanket tighter around his ears, and tried to think instead of warm beds and warm lovers. The rest of the night's rest was fitful at best, and he was almost relieved when the Warden tossed his boots to the ground near his head and ordered him to fetch water. 

Stiffness had settled in overnight, and he wished again that they hadn't taken his health potions along with the poisons. By the time he had slowly made enough trips with the water bucket, the camp had largely been broken down. 

Zevran checked on the wound while he was out of sight to gather his clothes. The bleeding had stopped completely. The edges were still red and puffy, but he didn't think it was worse than the night before. He shifted the bandaging around so a clean section covered the wound. It certainly wasn't ideal, but he didn't have much left to replace it with. 

The group set a fast pace, and by the time the warden called for a break at midday, Zevran was already struggling.

"Big bad assassin not used to a little walking?" Morrigan said, still looking as fresh as she had in the morning.

"Ah, but my stamina is better adapted to more enjoyable pursuits than endless walking. Perhaps, you would care—"

"You do realize that I could turn you inside out with magic if you finish that sentence?"

"Forbidden desires are the fondest of dreams, my dear sorceress." He braced himself for whatever magical retribution that would bring, but the warden cleared his throat and Morrigan pulled back.

Dried meat and hard bread was passed around, and the general mood lightened a little. Zevran forced the food down in spite of a lack of hunger. Experience told him that a wound needed feeding to heal.

The break was far too short, and the pace for the afternoon was no less grueling. The pain from the bruises, except for his hip had mostly faded as the day wore on. The wound though, had been quiescent during the morning march and increasingly painful all afternoon. 

When they finally stopped for the night, it was already nearing dark. Zevran waited by the wagon for the water bucket, and carried it as quickly as he could manage. Phydeaux was his shadow again as he moved through the camp. He had never been one to care overmuch for dogs, but this one's loyalty to an order from his master was impressive.

As Zevran got near with the last bucketful, Alistair loudly said, "I think the assassin is trying to kill us all by starvation now." 

Zevran set the bucket down, and left without responding. He should say something flirtatious. It fit with the persona he was building up in the group, but if he spoke now, his voice might betray his pain. 

He heard the sound of Leliana's voice, but not the words, and then Alistair's loud, "What? I was only joking!"

The stream they camped by that night had no convenient screening of bushes, but the gathering dark and the distance from camp should be enough. Unless Qunari could see in the dark? The wound had bled more at some point in the marching, and the bandage was stuck to it. 

The water didn't seem as cold here. The bandage was soon soaked off, and Zevran carefully washed the area with the soap. It was tender all around, and felt warm and puffy. He didn't have to see it to recognize the beginnings of an infection. It was still possible that his body could fight it off. He'd survived worse as a child, after all. 

He dried off with his stained shirt and put the other one back on. The wound wasn't bleeding. Air would do it some good. Back by the fire, he wrapped in his blanket and let the conversation flow around him. The warden was questioning Sten tonight, and the giant was not making that easy for him. The food was finally ready. A hot meal was definitely worth the wait after all that walking. 

When everyone began turning to bed, Zevran sighed and started to pull off his boots. 

"No. You can keep your boots. I trust that Phydeaux will put an end to you if try to run."

"I am sworn to you. I will not run."

"Men have forgone oaths before, assassin, even oaths given without threat to their lives. Phydeaux will make sure you keep yours." The warden spun on his heel and stalked away.

Zevran marked that worthy of further investigation. It was definitely spoken from private pain. Leliana had the first watch tonight. Zevran waited until everyone else had gone into their tents, or in Sten's case, his bedroll, before trying to get comfortable. 

He closed his eyes and woke to the sound of the warden berating Phydeaux. His mind was sluggish and he didn't understand why he wasn't cold or why the dog was being chastised until it whined and the sound was directly above his ear.

"Yes, I know I told you to watch him, but I never told you to play nursemaid. You're a wardog for Maker's sake!"

The dog shifted a little and whined again.

"You do know he's an elf and an assassin?"

Alistair laughed. "You may as well give it up, Aedan, your dog definitely thinks it's a nursemaid. First trying to feed Morrigan and now this. If I hadn't actually seen him ripping out throats, I would never believe he's a wardog."

The furry wall behind him shifted and a low growl sounded.

"Oh no. Don't be offended if it's true. Besides, I know very well that you're a warrior. You just care about your comrades, right?"

A playful yip and the giant furry head came to rest against Zevran's head again. Alistair shuffled off to his tent, and the warden took up patrols. Zevran was lulled back to sleep to the tune of Phydeaux's snores. 

He woke shivering and being poked in the leg with a stick. "I am awake. I am awake. Stop poking me."

"It's about time! You didn't even stand watch. How can you still be asleep?" Leliana sounded offended.

Zevran sat up slowly. The others were taking down the tents already. His side throbbed, and his head felt heavy, but he quickly stuffed his blanket in his pack and draped his armor over his shoulders. It took two people to get the walking fortresses into their armor, and Zevran used that distraction to slip behind some bushes, ostensibly to relieve himself, and lifted his shirt to check on the wound. It was puffy, and the red had spread to an area the size of his hand.

He pulled the shirt down and buckled the armor in place. It was still possible that he could fight this off. They were heading toward Denerim, and he could definitely steal the needed supplies there. At the pace the warden had been maintaining, they'd be at Denerim by the end of tomorrow. Phydeaux gave his sleeve a tug and motioned back toward the camp.

"I thank you, friend, for last night. A true warrior can also show compassion, yes?"

The dog bounced around and yipped. Zevran picked up a stick and gave it a toss. It didn't go far, but the dog happily chased it down anyway. Phydeaux gave him a critical look and instead took the stick to Sten. 

Zevran found a bowl of cold porridge on the stump near where he had slept, and sat down to eat. Sten feigned impatience and disdain, but he threw the stick again and again, and the tone he used when speaking to the dog was kind. The giant did have a mode other than gruff. Who knew?

They headed out shortly after, and well before lunch, left the relative safety of the imperial road for the woods. Alistair argued that they should go immediately to look for a Brother Genitivi in Denerim, but the warden insisted that they deliver their Grey Warden treaties to the Dalish elves on the way—in the Brecilian forest. Zevran shuddered at all that wilderness with its unknown dangers. He'd take someone trying to shove a knife into his back any day over monsters he'd only ever heard tales of.

They were walking further from the medicine he needed, but he remembered the Dalish as being skilled healers. Perhaps he could play on their racial sympathies to aid a city elf? When they halted for their midday food, Zevran chewed methodically and kept his silence. Leliana commented that it was nice to eat without hearing talk of bosoms. 

Zevran pointedly stared at hers the rest of the break, until she threw her hands up with a huff and put herself behind Alistair when they began walking again. Zevran chuckled.

"Are you sure we can't just hand him over to the nearest guard when we reach Denerim? I'm _sure_ he's done something worthy of imprisonment." Alistair said.

"We need allies. There are two of us against a blight's worth of darkspawn, an archdemon, and a civil war. We can't afford to be choosy."

"You're right. You're right. An assassin is just what we should expect at this point, I suppose."

The trees above them rustled. Before Zevran could shout a warning, giant spiders dropped into the middle of the party. Zevran had seen spiders in gardens, the kind who made intricate webs. These were similar, shiny backs, bold markings, but easily larger than him with fangs that equaled his forearm in length. The party instantly fell into practiced battle tactics. The witch defended the wagon with vicious long-distant spells, Leliana danced around the beasts, stabbing while the armored mountains waded in swords swinging. 

Zevran spotted a weakness between the body segments and called it out to the others. The spiders shot wads of webbing at the warriors big enough to immobilize even Sten for a few seconds at a time. Still, with Leliana's bow and Morrigan's spells, they were doing well. Zevran weaved in and out taking opportunistic shots, the thrill of battle masking his physical state. 

Alistair killed one of the beasts, and was about to swing on another, when a third webbed him. The second moved in for a deadly strike. Zevran leapt on its back and slammed both daggers into its weak spot. Greenish blood spurted, coating everything. The spider twitched wildly. Zevran lost his grip and was flung through the air. His back slammed into a tree. He rolled onto his knees and desperately fought to pull air into his lungs. 

Just as he sat upright, a spider pounced, pinning him back against the tree, his feet trapped underneath him. It lunged for his throat. He got an arm up in time to block it, and the spider snapped down on it. The next few seconds were a blur of pain and movement and then the flash of a sword, and a crushing weight.

The next thing Zevran knew, Alistair was shouting in his ear, "Found him!" He continued quieter, "Sleeping on the job, again, I see?"

Zevran struggled to sit up. Nothing seemed to be moving the way he wanted. Alistair dragged him up and propped him against a tree.

"Maker's breath!" Alistair began digging through his pack. 

Zevran wasn't sure what Alistair was doing, so he reverted to banter because it took less thought. "With the right target, the sleeping together can be the best part." 

Zevran expected Alistair to blush and stammer. His whole virginal act was endearing, but instead, Alistair drew out bandages and began wrapping them around Zevran's arm. It was covered by the time Zevran saw what Alistair was doing, but it couldn't be good with that much blood. 

A distant part of Zevran knew he should be feeling that. Spider venom. If the dose had been high enough the lack of feeling would keep spreading, taking his movement with it until he couldn't breath. He stared at his arm. "It does not hurt." 

"Morrigan!"

"I am aware. Give me time and control that bleeding."

Adding to the surreal feeling of the scene, Zevran heard Leliana somewhere in the background reciting part of the chant. He wasn't sure if it was a prayer for healing or the chant of passing. Alistair looked shaky. That, Zevran could do something about. "At least the view is not a bad one. A handsome man is much preferable to the underside of a spider."

"Will that potion shut him up as well?" 

"If I had a potion that could do that, do you not think I would have used it on you, Alistair?"

"Yes, well, I—"

The Warden stomped up behind Alistair. "Is this how all your battles end?"

Morrigan pulled the Warden away and knelt beside Zevran with a flask. The contents were glowing slightly. "Can you still swallow?"

Zevran tested it before nodding.

"Good. Drink." She tipped the potion bottle, pouring slowly. 

It tasted better than Zevran expected. "How long?"

"It depends on the dose of venom, of course. I cannot make an antidote stronger than this. I am not my mother. Now hold still."

Morrigan nudged Alistair out of the way, and pulled the blood soaked bandage back. 

Zevran wished he hadn't looked. The arm was entirely mangled, exposed broken bone, peeling blackened skin. It was a death sentence. If the venom didn't kill him, the warden would. 

Morrigan sprinkled something over the area and wrapped it tightly. She stood and stepped in close to the warden. Zevran could just make out her words.

"If you find the Dalish very soon, and their healer is very good, there may be a chance. If not, 'twould be better to remove the arm while it is still numb."

"No!" The Dalish healers had a good reputation. Hope was not gone. But cutting off his arm? A one armed assassin? At best he'd slow them down and be worthless in a fight. They would never trust him loose behind them. Killing him would be the only option, and he would rather die with both arms.

Alistair's hand on his shoulder held him down with ease. "It won't come to that. I'm sure."

Morrigan gave Alistair a dirty look. Whatever else he'd learned about the witch, he knew she brooked no lying, not even to give comfort to the doomed, it seemed. 

The warden ignored both Zevran and Alistair, instead consulting his map. "We are close to the historic camp. How long until the antidote works?"

"If it works, an hour, two at most to completely reverse the effects."

"Leliana, take off his armor. If we're carrying him, we don't need the weight."

Leliana knelt, and began unbuckling the chest plate of his armor. Her look of pity was something familiar. She was from the chantry. They sometimes fed beggars back in Antiva City with similar looks. What had she been chanting? The question loomed in his mind.

"You prayed for me?"

"Of course, Zevran. The maker watches over us all, even those who do not believe."

"You think I don't believe?"

"I—"

She tugged the chestplate away. "More bleeding!"

Zevran couldn't feel the wound to his side or much of anything, really, but he could see it and the bruising when Alistair lifted his shirt. The reddened area had grown and streaks were creeping out further. 

"That is _not_ from today," Leliana said. "It is badly infected. Why would you not say something?"

He didn't know how to answer. His mind was sluggishly rotating around his arm. "I—" He was glad for the interruption by the warden.

"Leliana, Morrigan, Phydeaux, stay with the wagon. Bodahn, as soon as you can catch up, right? I don't like being split up in these woods. Sten, point. Alistair, you take him first." 

Zevran hadn't noticed Alistair and Aedan removing their armor, but the shoulder he was hoisted over was clad only in a shirt. This would be the perfect time to say something that would make Alistair blush, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Blackness slowly filled his vision.

The next thing he knew, he was thumping the ground, and feeling everything he had been missing earlier. It took several seconds to get past the screaming pain to be able to understand the shouting going on around him.

"We are not here to fight you! We are Grey Wardens. Your ancestors signed a treaty with us, and we come to invoke it."

"Drop your weapons, shem, and maybe we can talk."

"I release this sword for no one!" Sten roared. 

"We will sheath them." 

Zevran managed to roll over, so he could see the encounter. His vision wavered, and Zevran's stomach threatened to rebel. The Dalish had bows drawn, but Aedan and Alistair had sheathed their weapons. Aedan stared at Sten until he followed suit. The elves began easing their draws. At the same time, Zevran lost the battle with his stomach.

Alistair was suddenly there, keeping him from falling into his own mess. "You back with us?"

"I think I would prefer to be wherever I went."

Above them Aedan asked, "Do you have a healer?"

"You must speak with our keeper."

"Alistair."

Alistair moved to pick Zevran up.

"No! I can walk."

Alistair looked dubious, but he stood and offered a hand up. Zevran made it three steps before he swooned. Alistair, damn him, had been prepared and swept him up like a child.

"Shall I call you daddy now?" The teasing came so easily even while the words were slurred.

"Only if you want me to drop you."

"I would much rather be held in your strong arms. Such a fine chest as well."

Alistair made a disgusted noise, but didn't drop him. Zevran sagged into Alistair's hold. Continuing to needle the man, while worth it, took more energy than he had. 

There was a tense exchange with the keeper who did finally agree to honor the treaty, but only after the Warden had agreed to kill a magic wolf and a whole forest full of werewolves. Zevran was a footnote to the conversation, and he got the impression that the only reason the Dalish agreed was the shape of his ears.

They followed the Keeper to the already packed infirmary, and Alistair put him down on one of the few empty cots. The healer woman spoke with Alistair briefly, then ordered him to leave.

She cut Zevran's shirt off. "The Shem said he didn't know you were injured. How old is that wound, and what have you done for it? You are free to speak here. You may be a flat-ear, but you are among the Dalish now, and we will not allow a shem to harm you."

The Dalish had no concern with his usefulness, so he answered as plainly as possible. "Three days. I have done nothing for it, but tried to keep it clean."

"Take this. It will fight the sickness and dull the pain."

That probably meant it would make him go to sleep. He couldn't do it without knowing something. "My arm?"

"Has a better chance with the infection gone."

Zevran drank the potion. The pain ebbed away, but so did his ability to think. The woman took his arm and began unwrapping it. Zevran only thought the pain had dulled. He couldn't access his training to endure, couldn't stop himself from struggling, from begging them not to take his arm. An assistant appeared from nowhere to hold him down. He clawed for control through the drug haze, fought for it until blackness took him.


	2. And Kept

## 

Chapter Two

### And Kept

He woke with a start. It was night, and the camp was quiet—his arm! He threw back the thin blanket and sighed with relief. Fingers poked from the end of the thick bandaging. Everything was still there. He sank back down. His body ached, his head felt muzzy, and a bone crushing weariness pressed him down.

A man's voice next to his head, startled Zevran. "Why do you imitate our vallaslin? Not many city elves are so brazen." The Keeper's eyes bored into Zevran. The man had the advantage of him, but Zevran refused to acknowledge it by shifting away.

"My mother was Dalish." Zevran was proud of his mother's heritage, even if it had brought nothing but pain. 

"And she taught you nothing more about us than to think you could deserve the vallaslin without earning them?"

"She died soon after giving birth to me. I was raised with the other whoresons." He stared into the eyes of the old Keeper, as he said it. Zevran had decided long ago that he would not accept shame for simply being born. 

"How did this happen? How did the shem take her from her clan?"

"I was told she fell in love with a woodcutter and followed him to the city. He died. She was left with his many debts. The rest is a tale as old as history."

"And you. How did an Antivan whore end up in Ferelden hands?"

"I am no whore. I am an Antivan Crow, sent to kill the Grey Warden. Sadly, in this, I failed. I pledged myself to his service in lieu of being dead."

"So he possesses you. And this is the man who would save Fereldan. A _shem_ like all the rest." The Keeper's eyes swept over Zevran. "He cannot even be bothered to treat his possession with care. You say in lieu of death you followed him, yet your wounds were festering while they carried supplies to treat them."

"I am a Crow. A Crow cannot be weak."

The Keeper stared at him for a long moment, then patted him on the shoulder. "You are young. So very young." 

Zevran tried to form a protest, but the Keeper waved a hand at him, and he felt an inexorable pull toward sleep.

* * * 

It was day when Zevran woke again. Leliana was sitting next to him, humming something that sent waves of calm through him. He was content to just stare at nothing in particular, eyes half-closed. Bardic magic, he thought distantly. After a while, she stopped and began speaking, looking into the distance. Zevran wasn't sure she knew he was awake. 

"It is my fault, you know. I took your potions. I searched you and saw the bandage. I did not think about it again. I let you distract me with all your talk of bosoms and Alistair's posterior, but now I have looked again and have seen that you were in pain. We did not trust you, nor you us, but I saw you save Alistair. You fought bravely even though you were gravely ill. Aedan and Alistair took off their armor, and carried you all the way to the Dalish."

She turned and smiled at him. "Perhaps now we know each other better, and we can trust each other, no?"

Zevran didn't respond, keeping the same half-lidded stare. He had the Keeper's words, and now Leliana's. He had his entire life of Crow training, and all that it whispered to him. He had much to think on, and a head that still felt full of wool. Leliana left when one of the healer's assistants appeared with food for the injured Dalish, and shooed her away. 

Zevran remained still. He did not expect to be fed. The Dalish had already wasted resources on him that he could not repay. The girl passed the food around to any who could eat. She stopped next to Zevran's cot. "Up with you, now. The shem is gone, you can stop pretending."

Zevran sat up slowly, putting his feet firmly on the ground. His head pounded and he felt too heavy to sit up straight. "I have nothing with which to pay you."

"I didn't ask to see your coin. How would you propose to heal without food?"

"Not easily."

"Is that the way the shem do it? They would agree to heal you, but not feed you while they do?" 

She shook her head, and looked prepared to launch into a tirade, but the healer stepped up beside her. "Be easy on him Kira, he's only a flat-ear and knows no other ways than those of the shem."

Zevran felt indignant at that. There were many things he enjoyed about his life. Fine food, fine women—and men—the satisfaction of seeing a difficult-to-make poison snuff the life out of his target. That he had to steal what pleasures he had was beside the point. He had them and often. He was grateful to the Crows. He had seen the life he would have led without their intervention. He much preferred this one. 

"Aye, I forget the depth of the shem depravity. Eat this." She handed him a large mug of a rich broth, making sure he had it steady before letting go. "If you stomach that, you can try something solid next time."

"Thank you." Zevran drank his broth, then asked where he could relieve himself. 

The girl, Kira, set the other helper, a boy, on his trail. Zevran stubbornly made it to the location and finished his business. The distance back seemed to have trebled. A few minutes later he staggered back to his cot, most of his weight on the boy, whose name he didn't even know, and he found himself saying thank you, without adding sarcasm or innuendo, for the second time in only a few minutes. 

* * * 

It wasn't the words that next woke him, so much as the urgent tones. The healer and her two assistants surrounded a cot that had been empty, and a silent ring of Dalish warriors watched just outside the medical area. Zevran sat up trying to see who the healers were helping. He leaned to the side and saw Dalish armor. The others in the infirmary were showing signs of distress until the Keeper entered the area. A general murmur of "Zathrian!" traveled through the crowd. 

The old man walked around the infirmary, patting patients on the shoulder, telling them not to worry. They immediately fell asleep. Zevran lay down, tried to look as relaxed as possible. Zathrian passed him by, and Zevran continued watching the drama unfold. His head was much clearer than it had been before, and while he still felt drained, it no longer felt like an ox was sitting on him. Whatever they had given him for pain was amazing. His arm was still only a distant throbbing. 

He tried moving his fingers. The wrapping held them in place firmly, but they all twitched at his commands. His vision misted. How far had they carried him to engineer this miracle? Was it really as Leliana said, that the others had not known about the injuries?

The healers finally stepped away from the cot, leaving a bandaged but steadily breathing Dalish. The watchers began to slip away. During the late afternoon, Zevran caught a glimpse of Alistair leaning on Aedan, not putting full weight on one foot as they made their way past to the privy.

Zevran ate again, actual food this time, and walked to the privy and back alone. He peeked under the bandage covering his side, and the wound was a healthy color and almost closed. He was worn out again by the time he made it back to his cot, but couldn't sleep. By the time the healer finally stopped at his cot near sundown, Zevran was thoroughly bored. 

She took in his expression and said, "Tomorrow, you can assist Maeve and Tor around the infirmary. Now let's look at this arm."

Zevran remembered what he had seen when Morrigan uncovered it. The skin had been blackened and cracked around the wounds, burned from the venom. The wounds were wider than two of his fingers, and he had seen damaged bone and sinew. Even the fact that his fingers now worked couldn't allay his dread. She slowly removed the wrapping that held the brace and bandages in place. 

She paused. "Breathe. It will be fine."

Zevran took a deep breath, and she pulled the bandage away. The holes had begun to close together. He could no longer see the inner workings of his arm. The burns were raw and red, but looked like skin, not burnt paper. He looked up at the healer in wonder.

"Do you think we would have traveled these woods for hundreds of years, and not learned the means of treating wounds from the giant spiders? Still, you are lucky that it was our clan you found. Zathrian is the strongest keeper the Dalish have seen since we lost the Dales."

"I—I—" He looked back at his arm, as she smeared more medicine on it. 

"It will be healed in a few more days."

Zevran found himself saying, "Thank you," and meaning it, for the third time today.

"You are welcome, young man. Now, tomorrow, you can help, but do not use this arm for anything."

* * *

The next day, the Warden took Leliana, Sten, and Morrigan back into the forest. Zevran still slept most of the day, but completed some tasks for the assistants. These Dalish seemed to have settled on pity when it came to him. Something he neither wanted nor needed. 

An Antivan is how Zevran identified himself, then a Crow. Elvish was just an attribute he happened to possess, like devastating handsomeness. These Dalish though, for them it meant everything, and pity was their ingrained reaction toward any Elf for whom it didn't. Not that he had done much to dissuade them with the infected wound. 

On the third day, Zevran ventured back to the Warden's camp. Allistair stood, almost coming to a military attention before jerking to a stop. He stared and fidgeted as Phydeaux bounded over and dropped a slobbery stick at Zevran's feet. Zevran threw it and scratched behind Phydeaux's ear when he returned it. The dog gamboled about, barking happily, then made a point of sniffing Zevran's side before returning to the hole he was digging. 

Zevran retrieved his armor and pack, and was leaving when Allistair finally spoke. 

"I—I mean—thank you. Yes. Thank you for jumping on that spider. I didn't want to be his supper."

Zevran did not have the energy to make sex worthwhile right now, but he was confident that this would go nowhere, that he had rightly read Alistair as a blushing virgin only interested in women. Zevran set his pack down and sauntered into Alistair's personal space. "And thank you for helping me keep my arm."

Alistair took a step back, a fierce blush creeping up his face, but his words lacked the uncertain stammer Zevran had expected. "Now see, that, that must stop. Leliana told me what you're doing, what you did. Shoving sex in our faces so we wouldn't really pay attention to you."

"Shoving… No. No, I cannot, it is like kicking a puppy."

Phydeaux growled, and Zevran backed away. "It's a saying! I would never kick a puppy!"

Alistair chuckled at him, but then turned serious. "You saved my life, but nearly lost yours, because we didn't trust each other." He ran his hand through his hair. "Look, I'm still not all that thrilled about an assassin who tried to kill me being on my side, and I'm not suggesting we tell each other all our secrets, but as long as we're working together can we agree to no hiding things that can get us killed?" 

Alistair stuck a hand out. Zevran looked at it dubiously. Alistair had been the most vocal about not wanting Zevran in the camp. On the other hand, he seemed painfully honest. Zevran cautiously shook his hand.

Facing betrayal while healthy was much preferable to facing it with festering wounds. Zevran could accept that practicality if it truly was an option. The other Warden made the decisions, though. Following through on this agreement depended on his reaction. 

That night, the healer again changed his bandages. The wounds on his arm were steadily closing. "Tomorrow, I will have you test the movement of your fingers."

"They may not work properly?" 

"It is possible. The damage was great. In most places, the only option would have been removing your arm entirely."

Zevran felt the ghost of the panic that had consumed him when he first saw the wounds. What would become of him if he couldn't grasp a weapon? He would be as useless to the Warden as he would be to the Crows. 

That night, he lay awake on his cot, half-formed plans tumbling over each other. He had little he was willing to offer, if he couldn't wield a weapon. While Zevran thoroughly enjoyed choosing to have sex with a pleasingly formed patron, he was not and would not be a whore obliged to have sex in exchange for scraps. The threat of the Crows made everywhere but the Dalish camp or the Warden's camp a death sentence for a one-armed assassin. He had Crow knowledge of poisons and stealthy attacks to bargain with, but how long it would buy?

The next morning, Zevran awoke resolved to do what he did best: survive. The first step was ingratiating himself to the Dalish. Even if he wasn't well suited for this life, it could be a necessary step. He and Phydeaux helped a woman with a white beast. He traded poison recipes with the alchemist for basic supplies. The healer caught him shivering and gave him warmer clothes and a blanket. If his fingers worked, and the Warden didn't confiscate his things again, then he'd be better able to cope with the road. If not, then perhaps these Dalish wouldn't find his presence too draining.

Zevran had rarely dreaded a task so much as approaching the healer that evening. He dragged himself over when she beckoned. With a deep breath he submitted. She deftly removed the bracing and bandages. The wound was pink and raw around two angry red eyes, but the skin was smooth and whole. 

"Move each finger."

They were stiff and moved slowly, but they obeyed. She had him stretch and touch each to his thumb, then form a fist. She replaced the bracing and bandages.

"It needs time to be fully healed inside. The bones and tendons are repaired but still delicate. It needs to stay braced for a week, and you need to build slowly, over at least another two weeks before full use."

He nodded dumbly. She moved on to another patient, and Zevran sagged back onto the cot. The relief was so intense he almost felt ill. 

That night, his thoughts were much more pleasant. Staying at the Dalish camp as an invalid no longer loomed. Plans could form. As a rule, Zevran didn't contemplate his place in the grand scheme of things. It had been determined for him long ago, and he accepted that. Those that couldn't weren't alive today. Forging his own path? He had never before considered it. 

He would follow this Warden. Until he dealt with his Crow entanglements, he needed associates. He had made a pledge to the Warden, and now—he wiggled his fingers slightly inside the brace—he could honor it. As Leliana had said, Aedan and Alistair had taken the risk of removing their armor and carrying him through dangerous territory on the slim chance of saving his arm. He owed them much more than a simple pledge could ever convey. Perhaps their cause could be his own—at least until he found a path truly his own.

* * *

Two days later, Zevran was talking with Cammen about his girl troubles when a collective sigh went up from the hunters in the infirmary and tension in the camp snapped. Choruses of, "Zathrian saved us! Thank the gods for Zathrian!" came from all over. The kid gave up on his pity party for the time being to celebrate the lifting of the curse. Several of the hunters were already sitting up, looking far healthier than he'd yet seen them. 

In the ensuing elated mood, it was not difficult to help the boy woo his beloved. Even the storyteller begrudgingly allowed Alistair to sit near enough the circle to hear the day's tales. Zevran followed Alistair back to their camp when it was over. Alistair busied himself with needle and thread. Zevran had gotten much information from him about the rest of the party, enough that Alistair had gotten cautious. Too late, of course. Zevran knew that Morrigan's mother was a witch of the wild, some creature of fantastical power and wild tales whispered behind closed doors in villages. Whatever she was, she was powerful, and Zevran was always careful of power. 

He had not gotten everything. Alistair was hiding something about himself, and had flat out refused to answer questions about Aedan's background, even to revealing the man's patronym. Fallen noble then, with some measure of controversy in his leaving for Grey Warden servitude. It was a shame he had not researched his target. Then, for years he was not the maker of plans. He was the executor of plans. Until he had execut—

"You're _staring_ again. It makes me second guess sleeping." 

Zevran gave him a coy smile. "Perhaps I enjoy the view, no?"

"Ugh. Here. I almost regret having done it, now." Alistair handed him the bundle he had been working on. 

Zevran pulled the cloth aside and found his armor, clean and repaired. "Thank you, Alistair." He searched for an indication that Alistair expected something in return. 

The man rubbed the back of his neck and looked anywhere, but at Zevran. "Yes, well, can't have you running into battle with no protection. I have no desire to carry you off to our next location." 

Zevran didn't particularly want to needle the man after such a gesture, but had nothing else ready. This persona was rather one note. Alistair remained standing in front of him, shifting side to side, still not making a demand for payment. Phydeaux came bounding between them and dropped his drool covered stick on Alistair's feet.

"Hey!" Alistair grumped, but he picked up the stick and followed the dog.

Zevran ran his fingers over the repairs. They were expertly done. He hadn't been able to trade for armor, and had thought his lost. Even if it was to prevent loss of his usefulness, another Crow would have made him pay in some way. These people were _different_. Maybe. They had taken his supplies to treat his initial wound. Forging one's own path lacked a certain directness that he could easily come to miss.

Alistair had taken his shirt off and was wrestling with the mabari. Zevran appreciated the fine body on display before him. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the carnal acts. It had been before—he pushed the thought away, and focused on the present. The past was gone. The present mattered. For a body like Alistair's, he could even forgive the lingering smell of mabari, but Alistair would stammer and blush and refuse any direct advance. It could be greatly entertaining to introduce the man to the pleasures of the body. It would take time and subtlety—neither of which were in great supply on the road. 

Of the other party members, Morrigan and Sten would be murderous at the suggestion. Leliana clung to the cloister, even after her background had been revealed. Pity, he'd always wanted to compare the skills of their respective organizations. The Warden though—Aedan—now he was also a handsome man. Zevran had caught the way his eyes had lingered a bit too long in just the right areas. No blushing virgin, their Warden. 

He stood and stretched luxuriously. Aedan was likely, but subtlety took time, and he had an ample supply at the moment.

* * * 

Later that day, Aedan, Sten, Morrigan, and Leliana slunk into camp. None of them made eye contact with the Dalish and questions of Zathrian's whereabouts were avoided. Zevran wasn't surprised when Aedan's next stop after dropping his pack in camp was the clan's Second. Zevran quietly maneuvered close enough to overhear the tightness in the Warden's tone when he said Zathrian had ended the curse, and in the end had died a good death. 

The new keeper was no fool, and maybe she knew something more about the curse than the clan storyteller let on, because she accepted Zathrian's death with little more than a nod. The conversation ended quickly, and Zevran hid until the Warden had stalked back toward camp. 

Zevran strolled in a few minutes later. Leliana pounced on him, gushing about how much better he looked and how happy that made her. He flirted back at her until she sighed in frustration and went to the other side of the camp. 

Aedan stepped into the middle of the camp. "Everyone be ready to pull out at first light tomorrow." Everyone turned to organizing and packing. A week in one place had led to things being scattered for Alistair, and a week of hard travel to cleaning and repairs needed for the rest. Zevran had his spare clothing drying on some bushes, but otherwise had his things contained.

Aedan watched the activity for a bit, then stalked toward Zevran. "Follow me."

Zevran glanced at his arm still braced and wrapped, and swallowed heavily. Now he would learn whether this Warden was different or not.

The Warden stopped abruptly at the edge of the woods. He turned on Zevran, and said, "How long until you can begin fulfilling your pledge of usefulness?"

Zevran lifted his arm. "The healer said another week, then two more for the bones to heal before using it in battle. Then I shall to begin to honor it in earnest." He shifted his weight, ready to dodge any blow.

"Very well." The tone definitely placed this Warden as nobility or very near it. 

It was as neat a dismissal as any Zevran had heard, but he was relieved and when better to have sex than when one has just received good news? He leaned in and lowered the timbre of his voice just enough to telegraph his next move. "There are other ways I can be useful in the meantime."

Aedan stepped back, disgust in his expression. 

Had he misread the flashes of lust in the other man's expression? 

The Warden schooled his features, and said flatly, "Those services will not be required of you." 

He turned and stalked away. Zevran thought the conversation finished, but Aedan stopped and spun back to face Zevran. "Why are you still honoring your pledge? I've seen the way these Dalish look at me. Their opinion of me holding your pledge is low, to speak generously. You could have claimed asylum with them, and as I need them to defeat the blight I couldn't contest it. Your Crows would not find you in their forests. Yet you are in _my_ camp, offering your body as payment to remain. Am I to believe that you are just that loyal after you so quickly turned on the last man to hire you?"

"It is true. They would have offered me sanctuary. I would be safe from the Crows for a time, but as I said, I am very loyal, up to the point that my employer wants to kill me for failure. You could have killed me, or left me to my fate, but instead, went to considerable effort to prevent my death and maiming, so what else can I do but honor my pledge?"

"Yet you still think so little of me that you think I would demand sex with you because you are incapable of fighting for a time?"

"Why not? It is an enjoyable pastime, no? Especially with one so handsome."

Aedan sat down heavily on a stump with his head in his hands. "I gave usefulness as a condition to your continued life. This. This is not how I would be remembered. I have witnessed unrelenting revenge, and I will not become Zathrian."

He stood and faced Zevran again, this time without so much threat in his stance. It made him look younger. "I accepted your offer of aid, and until you break faith, you are a member of my party. You can't be useful if you are dying from an infected wound. We are not the Crows. We care for our wounded as best we are able. I was so focused on revenge that I didn't see you didn't know that."

"Actually, I am very good at not being seen." Zevran said with pride.

"Hiding behind talk. Yes. I have noticed, but I gave you no quarter in camp." Aedan paced, now seeming to talk to himself more than to Zevran. "I am a Warden. There is a blight. My vengeance cannot jeopardize the safety of Thedas. My lack of thought could have cost us the elvish support of our treaties." He abruptly stopped, a stricken look on his face as he remembered he was speaking before an audience. 

"Revenge. I am very good at the exacting of revenge. Tell me whom my blades are seeking."

"The man who turned on my father and slaughtered my family. Rendon Howe. He is styling himself _Arl_ now. Claiming my father's lands as his own."

"Ah. Dour man? Long face? Licks the boots of this Loghain who wants you dead, yes?"

"You've seen him?" The Warden surged toward Zevran with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"Yes, yes. In Denerim. He sent for the Crows." If he had cared at all about surviving his mission, Zevran would have known all about this. He hadn't even bothered finding out their names! He could think of several ways he could have killed this young, inexperienced leader, all with no risk to himself whatsoever. He needed to talk to the others about security.

The Warden took a deep breath and a step back. When he spoke, emotion was absent. "Then we must be even more careful in Denerim." His fists clenched at his sides. "I _will_ kill Howe, but stopping the Blight comes first."

Usually Zevran's objectives were simple. No matter how complicated contracts were to carry out, they were all variations of kill the target. On the rare occasions that he didn't have a contractual objective in front of him, he had sex and the obtaining of fine food and drink to occupy his time, usually through a game of carefully choosing who he pursued for sex. Aedan had reacted badly to the suggestion of sex. He had put off indefinitely the killing of his target, and this mission was looking like it could take a very long time with very little opportunity for the pursuit of more enjoyable activities. 

The Warden picked up the thread while Zevran considered. "Are you going to be able to keep up on the road?"

"I will keep up."

"Zevran." 

The sound of his name almost startled him. The Warden had not used it before. 

"If you can't keep up with the normal pace, that means we take it a bit slower for a few days. It doesn't mean I kill you and leave your body in a ditch somewhere."

"Of course not. Then you would not have my devastating handsomeness to brighten your day."

Aedan's lip quirked up for an instance and a small chuckle escaped. He clapped Zevran on the back. "Aye. Can't have that."

At the least, it seemed he would not have to worry about changing his speaking habits, and perhaps, in the not too distant future, he would be successful in his suggestions of sex.


End file.
